


As Slowly as a Glacier

by zarabithia



Category: Captain America (2011), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: fanfic100, Community: love bingo, Implied Past Non-Con, M/M, PTSD, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Steve tries to date Clint, the Avengers attempt to be helpful in his adjustment to the twenty-first century, and sex pollen almost ruins everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Slowly as a Glacier

Eventually, the Avengers stopped feeling so much like a mission and started to feel much more like an actual team.

Steve wasn't sure he would ever say that they felt like the Commandos. Not because it wasn't true, but because the wound of what he'd lost was still too raw for that to feel like anything other than a conscious replacement.

But they were becoming family, that much was true. Considering the way Steve had felt about the last people he'd called family - namely, Peggy and Bucky - he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised about what happened next. 

Yet, it was still able to knock him off his feet, and Steve meant that quite literally.

~

"Well, I was able to knock Captain America onto his ass?" Hawkeye stood over Steve, with an increasingly familiar smirk. That smirk had taken a while to show itself after the incident with Loki, which only made Steve dislike the villain all the more. 

Because the smug self-assurance that smirk promised looked good on Clint the way it really didn't on anyone else.

"I guess you finally decided to listen to some of my hand to hand lessons," Steve said, as he stood back up. "All that arguing was an impressive front for allowing me to think otherwise, though."

"Hey, it's not like I'm a newbie circus brat. I did have substantial tactical training before you came along," Clint answered breezily. "Besides, you love it when I argue with you, Glamor Pants." 

As surely as he'd been knocked on his ass only moments before, the truth behind Clint's statement took Steve by surprise. It wasn't as though Steve could argue that point. The bickering, the nicknames - when they came from Tony, they made Steve increasingly irritated and long all the more for the people that Steve had lost. 

When they came from Clint, Steve _did_ think of Bucky, but only because Bucky had been the only _other_ person who could tease him and make Steve enjoy it. 

"Hey, Cap, you alright? You seemed awfully far away for a minute." Clint looked genuinely concerned, but Steve shook off his concern. 

"I'm fine, Clint."

"Well, I know I'm not the mighty Captain America, but if you keep daydreaming in the middle of sparring practice, I'm going to end up knocking you on your ass again." 

"Is this where we make another one of your lunch time bets?" 

"Oh, I think so. You didn't think we were going to stop now that I'm actually getting the upper hand, did you? I'm _this close_ to getting you to eat something besides that terrible cabbage soup." Clint grinned cockily and Steve really _was_ going to have to find somewhere quiet to sit down and examine how that grin was making him feel. 

That could wait until after he won, of course. 

"Of course not. Same bet as yesterday? Whoever wins picks lunch?" Steve offered. "You know, Clint, if I didn't know better, I'd just assume your chronic gambling addiction was simply you trying to spend more of your day with me. You could always just ask."

Clint blinked at him, at a rare loss for words. Then he laughed. "Are you flirting with me, Cap? Because Nat uses that as a tactical maneuver _much_ better than you do." 

Which may have been true, but they _still_ ended up having cabbage soup for lunch.

~

At times, things were rather depressingly similar in the twenty-first century. Steve had awoken to a world in the middle of an economic crisis, the U.S. warring with people overseas, and a good deal of political discontent on the home front. 

He'd lived through each of those things before, and the news rarely shocked him. Dismayed, certainly, that all the fighting he'd done hadn't actually _changed_ things as much as he'd hoped, but shocked? Hardly.

Generally, he preferred to watch the news at home in his Brooklyn apartment, so he could be dismayed in peace, and because watching the news with the Avengers was sometimes ... irritating at best. 

"Protesting against the president's policies?" Tony leaned over the side of the couch where Steve and Clint were eating their breakfast. "That must be offending your forties' sensibilities, Capsicle." 

Steve stirred the eggs on his plate for a moment before he replied. "Don't your history books have any mention of President Hoover?" 

"Maybe they don't have history books at MIT," Clint suggested around a mouthful of french toast sticks. Clint had made them in the microwave, and each time Steve watched someone make something in the microwave, he wished he could go _backwards_ in time and give one to his mother. 

She would have liked them, he thought, and they would have made her life so much easier after standing a full day on her feet at the hospital. 

"I generally left the history to my dad," Tony scoffed. "I like to live in the _present_." 

"I'm sure Colonel Rhodes can help fill you in on the lessons you missed," Steve answered. "We had a very interesting conversation about comparative social movements when you were late picking him up last Wednesday." 

"I had other commitments," Tony claimed, and Steve decided from the tone in question, that probably meant something related to sex. "But I would have skipped them, if I'd known you were torturing Rhodey." 

"I wasn't torturing him." Only the sound of his mother's voice chiding him about having manners kept Steve from rolling his eyes. "He wanted to know about an old teammate of mine, and the conversation grew from there." 

Tony leaned a little closer. "Why, Captain America, what _are_ your intentions towards my best friend?" 

"He tells me he already has someone special," Steve said steadily. "So I can assure you that my intentions are entirely platonic." 

Tony looked at him for a minute, and then looked over his shoulder to Clint. "Did that sound the same to you as it did to me, Barton?" 

"He wouldn't be the only Captain America at the Pride Parade," Clint answered, and although Steve wasn't entirely sure what that meant, he was sure of one thing.

Clint hadn't moved away from him. 

Which was a good sign, and one Steve needed, because the problem with the twenty-first century wasn't that so much was different. The problem was that the lines had gotten more blurry.

~

The line Natasha made towards him after his next S.H.I.E.L.D. debriefing was pretty clear, actually, and so were her comments. "I've been reading your file. More importantly, I've been talking to Agent Carter. I never would have guessed that you could do covert, but both of those things claim otherwise." 

"Do you need me for a mission?" Steve asked, and he tried to hide his amusement. Natasha was very blunt, in ways that he appreciated. With a teammate, she was never blunt with the intent to be cruel; she simply disliked wasting time. 

Steve respected her immensely for these things, and the part of him that wasn't sure whether or not Clint was still in love with her wouldn't have blamed him if he had been. 

If things had been different, Steve was pretty certain he could have loved her, too.

"No. I'm going on a mission with Carter. We leave in four hours and won't be back for at least three weeks. But Clint's going to Madripoor tomorrow, and despite what he thinks, it's at least a two person job." She paused, then shrugged in what would have appeared to be a nonchalant manner, if he hadn't been aware that he was speaking to a spy. "He'll probably give you less hassle than he would another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent." 

"I doubt that, but I'll meet up with him bright and early tomorrow morning," Steve promised. 

~

Steve's doubts were pretty well-founded. 

"Natasha and I are going to have a long, long chat about boundaries," Clint grumbled, and Steve didn't have time to wonder what that meant, before Clint plunged on. "I don't need your help, Cap."

"I'm sure you don't," Steve answered smoothly. "But I made a promise to Agent Romanova and I intend to keep it." 

"She only likes you because you know how to say her name correctly," Clint huffed. "None of that 'Romanov' shit."

"Well, I hope there's more to it than that," Steve retorted, and for some reason, that made Clint's eyebrows furrow in his direction. 

"That's just _swell_ , Cap. But it's a solo mission. If you're so enamored with Nat, why don't you go catch up with her and join _her_ mission?" 

"She had a different partner in mind," Steve said simply. "And so do I." 

Clint's face did an impressive version of blank at that moment. "Fine. But if you screw this up and end up giving up our cover, I'm picking our first lunch when we get back."

"If I screw up and give up our cover, you can pick the entire first week of lunches when we get back," Steve promised. "Even if you do like strange things like chocolate covered bacon." 

"Chocolate covered bacon beats your cabbage soup," Clint grumbled, but he did let Steve onto the plane. 

~

They were in Madripoor for a week before Steve almost blew their cover. Clint was stationed within his line of sight, just over the suspect's shoulder. Across the crowded room, Steve could see Clint frowning in his direction, and he could see the frown deepen when the suspect started to pull away.

"You misunderstand my intentions," Steve told his acquaintance. "I'd like very much to dance with you and hear all about your offers. It's just that I've never learned how to dance." 

"A handsome man like yourself? I find that difficult to believe." The man's accent was thick - too thick, and Steve thought to himself that this man was a far worse liar than Clint thought Steve was, because an accent that thick was merely hiding the truth about the man's origin. His true accent probably sounded closer to Steve or Clint's than to anyone in this club. 

Then, most of the American businessmen he did "business" with probably wouldn't have picked up on that, anyway. 

"I worked hard to get where I am today," Steve answered. His voice was smooth, even as he internally winced at the way he needed to twist the truth. "College, internships, working the way up the ladder, crushing my competition ... it doesn't leave a whole lot of room for learning how to dance." 

"That's what pretty little secretaries are for." 

Steve thought of Pepper, then, because he did not know a lot about her, but he did know that she used to be Tony's secretary. He also knew that she made up for all the tact Tony didn't have, she never thought he was stupid because he didn't get a popular culture reference, and she never made fun of him for always buying the generic version of a product, even though his back pay made pinching pennies _technically_ unnecessary.

Steve reminded himself that he was going to get an opportunity to punch this man later, and leaned forward, brushing his cheek along the other man's cheek, the same way Bucky had done, to all the other men who weren't Steve. 

"My secretary's not that much fun, I'm afraid, and besides, she's not nearly as handsome as you," Steve said suggestively. 

The man led him out onto the dance floor, and Steve reminded himself through the "instructions" that this was all leading to the kind of glorious punch that Peggy would have approved of.

~

"I thought you were going to sell us out there for a minute," Clint said later when they were alone in their hotel room. 

The weather was much warmer in Madripoor. While it didn't affect Steve, he couldn't say the same about Clint. Clint wasn't complaining, but the way he'd shed the outer layers of his costume and stripped down to a tight white t-shirt spoke volumes.

Steve wasn't complaining either; the sweat seeped through the t-shirt in just the right spots to emphasize Clint's chiseled form. 

"As Agent Romanova has pointed out, I do have experience with covert missions," Steve answered, because that seemed more appropriate than discussing how well Clint's t-shirt fit him. 

Clint lifted his arm and wiped off the thin line of sweat building on his brow. "Somehow, I don't think going undercover as a gay man was part of The French Resistance deal," Clint scoffed. 

"Mm. I've watched some of your twenty-first century spy films," Steve scoffed right back. "And, unfortunately, a few of your 'war' films. You're right - there is a general lack of gay and bisexual men." 

Clint frowned, and for a moment, Steve assumed it was because of the heat. Then Clint clarified his problem. "Who the hell is asking you to watch _war_ movies? Was it Stark? That sounds like the kind of insensitive jackass thing he'd do. Since Phil isn't around anymore to kick his ass, I feel like I should do it on principle." 

"No, it wasn't Stark," Steve corrected. "It was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s therapists, actually."

"Why the hell would your _therapists_ make you suffer through a _war_ movie? Good Christ, are they _trying_ to get your PTSD to act up?" 

Clint sounded angry, and Steve wondered what it said about him that he was taking that as a _positive_ sign. 

"They thought it would help me adjust to the twenty-first century better," Steve answered. "There are probably better ways." 

~

One of Steve's favorite ways to adjust to the new time period was watching Food Network with Thor. Oh, sure, they wasted food in ways that made him cringe - the new century was _very_ wasteful, and Steve would go on thinking that, no matter how many times his teammates called him cheap - but Steve liked seeing new ingredients that he'd never dared to dream about using when he'd been chopping potatoes at his mother's kitchen table. 

"On Asgard," Thor said, around a mouthful of food. "A good feast is the proper way to honor great warriors. But those who prepare feasts are not as celebrated as those who do so on Midgard."

"I don't think the 'feast preparers' are particularly celebrated on Midgard, either, Thor," Steve corrected.

Thor shuffled the nachos on his plate with a godly toss, then offered the plate to Steve. Steve took the offered food, both because he was aware of the inherent compliment Thor was paying his "warrior" status, and because it reminded Steve of the way he and Bucky used to huddle around any scrap of food they could manage. 

So even though the chips were too salty, the cheese too chunky and the salsa too runny, Steve's thanks was sincere. 

"You are very welcome, Steven. But I find myself confused about your culture once again, I'm afraid." 

"I know the feeling well," Steve said sympathetically. "But you know I'll help you if I can." 

"If your feast preparers are not celebrated, then why are they given spots on your television? The Lady Pepper tells me that the television is the theatre of choice for the heroes of Midgard." 

"Well, that's true," Steve agreed and he pushed aside the flash of nostalgia that made him miss the radio that he and his mother had used to listen to baseball games so intently. "But only some of the _cooks_ are celebrated, Thor." 

"And the rest of the _cooks_?"

"The rest ... well, the rest are treated a lot like feast preparers of Asgard," Steve admitted. 

"But what makes the difference?" 

"The cost of the food they prepare, the place they went to school, the general economic circumstances they're born into..." Steve listed, then gave half a shrug. "Sometimes, the quality of the food also plays a role, but I'm willing to bet that Jeffrey's hot dogs taste ten times as good as Miss De Laurentiis' lasagna." 

Every day that he could get the opportunity, Steve ate from Jeffrey's hot dog truck. They had the perfect mix of crunch and soft relish, and no matter how hard he tried, Steve could not get Jeffrey to stop calling him "sir." 

Steve _used_ to buy his lunch from there every day, but the lunches he'd been sharing with Hawkeye had been ... obstructing that plan. So mostly these days, the hot dogs served as the extra meal between lunch and dinner that his younger self never would have dreamed of having. 

"It is hard to beat Jeffrey's hot dogs," Thor agreed. He turned back to the television, and Steve thought the the conversation was over. 

But then Thor laid a heavy hand on Steve's shoulder - lightly as Thor may have intended it to be - and continued. "You are a wise friend, Steven," Thor said warmly. "And a kind one. So you should be advised that many of the Avengers have a betting pool regarding your ... relationship with Hawkeye."

There were many times in which Steve distinctly remembered the first rush of icy cold water hitting his lungs. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s doctors said it was just another part of his PTSD. Steve didn't argue with them, but he wasn't sure it was PTSD causing the sensation at the present. 

"Thanks for the warning, Thor."

~

"I should warn you," Clint said, as he set down the bowl of cabbage soup in front of Steve. "I've never actually cooked cabbage before." 

"You didn't have to cook the soup," Steve answered, peering into the bowl and frowning slightly at the congealed mass of gray sitting in the bottom. "That wasn't part of the bet that you lost." 

"Maybe it's all part of my diabolical plan." Clint straddled his chair like he was getting ready to mount a motorcycle, before sitting down. "Make bad enough cabbage soup and you'll stop liking it." 

Steve privately thought that if Clint kept mounting his chairs that way, no amount of bad soup could turn him away from their lunch dates. "That's not particularly nice of you."

"It's not particularly nice of you to keep choosing cabbage soup during our bets because you know I hate it, either, Cap."

The urge to argue was there, as it usually was with Clint, if only so that Steve could see the familiar scowl that Clint always gave during an argument. It was a scowl that took up at least one full notebook of sketches back in Steve's apartment. But instead, Steve asked, "Is that why you make me eat terrible things like chocolate covered bacon? Because you know I don't like it?" 

"Yes!" Clint answered immediately, with a bit of exasperation. "Well, okay. Not entirely. The carnival I used to be part of had fried bacon on a stick and dipped in chocolate. I always thought it was disgusting, but it reminds me of home." 

"Well, that's why I share cabbage soup with you. Even though my mom was a much better cook..." Steve chuckled softly, as that familiar scowl slipped into place. "It reminds me of home and I like sharing that with you, no matter how much you hate it."

The scowl softened a bit then. "Hell, when you say things like that, it's enough to make a guy not hate cabbage as much." 

That particular look on Clint's face deserved at _least_ as many pages in a notebook as his scowl did, Steve was sure. 

~

Apparently, there were even better looks that Clint was capable of making.

There was, for instance, the type of face Clint made when Steve wrapped his arms under Clint's shoulders to get a better feel of those archer muscles rippling beneath his fingers. 

Then there was the way Clint's teeth bit into his bottom lip as Steve thrust into him. 

Of course, the look of hazy contentment that slipped over Clint's face immediately after spilling into Steve's hands was one that Steve was going to treasure for a while. 

Naturally, Steve had thought about those kind of looks many times before, mostly within the privacy of his Brooklyn apartment. While Steve's imagination was pretty full of scenarios of different ways he might end up catching sight of any of those looks - having two distinctly different lovers of different genders during the War had made creativity a necessity - he'd never quite imagined he'd get his first glimpse on the roof top of Stark Tower.

Okay, so maybe he had. But in his imagination, the Avengers hadn't been under attack by a villain who decided that the best way to defeat them was through making them have sex with each other.

The common sense that had prevented him from contemplating such a terrible thing unfortunately didn't return until after the sex pollen wore off. 

~

The day after Steve's common sense returned was the first day he ate lunch from Jeffrey's hot dog truck in at least three months.

"Here you go, Sir," Jeffrey said, handing him both hot dogs. "Been a while since I've seen you this time of day."

"I had a change in schedule," Steve said simply, which seemed like the worst way possible to say that he'd taken advantage of a dear teammate.

But as far as explanations went, it was already too long for the guy behind him, so Steve took his hot dogs to the park.

It was funny to think that he'd once _enjoyed_ eating lunch away from the rest of his team. 

~

"It would make me a hypocritical asshole to claim that I don't _understand_ your lone wolf shtick, but Pepper likes you too much to let Natasha kill you," Bruce said, by way of announcing his presence in the park two weeks later. 

"I wasn't trying to be a lone wolf," Steve denied firmly, as he scooted over to give Bruce room to sit down on the bench beside him. 

See? Letting Bruce sit on the bench beside him was absolutely _not_ lone wolf behavior. To further prove it, Steve even offered Bruce the rest of his fries. 

"You know, the scientist in me really would love to see if your body even knows the difference between healthy fats and non-healthy fats anymore," Bruce said absently as sat down and accepted the offering. "Or if the serum takes care of that problem entirely."

"I thought we were worried about Natasha killing me," Steve muttered. Not that she didn't have _plenty_ of reason to, because taking advantage of her best friend was a perfectly good reason. "Not my fries."

"We can't worry about both?" Bruce asked. "But yes, Pepper is quite concerned about your welfare."

"Not as concerned as she is about yours."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "The Other Guy would like to inform you that you're being petty."

"Not petty. Just factual. I'm happy for you, Dr. Banner. Whatever you and Miss Potts and Tony have, it seems to be working for you, and it almost makes Tony a likable human being. It's obviously something to be treasured." 

Okay, so maybe that wasn't exactly petty, but it didn't sound as nice as Steve wanted it to, either. Fortunately, Bruce continued to munch on his fries - apparently, The Other Guy was as immune to them as he was to bullets - and didn't seem to notice Steve's slip-up.

"She doesn't blame me, you know. For all the things The Other Guy does," Bruce said finally. "Neither does Tony." 

"None of us do," Steve insisted. This seemed like a strange detour from Natasha's desire to kill Steve, but it was an important detour. 

"And yet, you blame yourself for what you did under the effects of the pollen two weeks ago?" Bruce pressed. 

"It's not the same thing, Bruce."

"I'm a monster, and you think what you did was monstrous. It seems pretty much the same to me."

"I'm just trying to be fair to Clint. To give him breathing room," Steve explained softly. "After what I did." 

"Pushing him away is never going to fall under anyone's definition of fair, Steve. Trust me on this; I do have some experience with running away." Bruce wiped his hands lightly on his jeans, before pressing on. "All it's going to accomplish is making you look like a coward, and quite possibly getting Natasha to shoot you." 

~

"If you're here because of Natasha, you can leave." 

Steve wasn't used to Clint sounding that angry with him, and it made Steve internally wince, even though he fully recognized that he deserved it. 

But he'd never taken kindly to being called a coward, so he stepped into the training room, finding it gratefully empty, save for Clint and the equipment. 

"I'm not here because of Natasha, Clint," Steve said quietly. 

"Then what do you want?" Clint lowered his bow and turned away from the target so that he could face Steve. Maybe Steve would have felt bad about that, too, except for the fact that Clint really didn't need _archery_ practice.

"I wanted to apologize. For the way ... things happened ... on the roof." 

"Really, Cap? You could have just spared us both the trouble of you showing up, because you made it loud and clear how _disgusted_ you were by what happened on that roof." Clint gave a humorless chuckle and turned back to his target. "And hey, it's perfectly _fine_ that you didn't want in my pants without an outside influence. Hell, it's even fine that you were more okay with shoving your tongue down the throat of a murderous scumbag in Madripoor than mine, but - "

"Clint, stop it."

"Why? Is my language too vulgar for Captain America when he isn't dick-deep inside of me?" Clint snapped, and he lost interest in the target again. In fact, Steve was pretty sure, as Clint turned back around, that Clint would happily have thrown the bow at Steve, if Clint hadn't been so fond of the weapon. "Well, you know what, Cap? Fuck you, and fuck your moping in the park bullshit, too. You're not the first person to have regret the morning after you have sex so get over yourself."

"We didn't have sex," Steve blurted. He could feel himself getting angry, though he wasn't really sure why, other than it felt like he was having an entirely different argument than the one Clint was trying to have. 

"Okay, I don't know what the hell you _called_ it back in the forties, but in the twenty-first century? When your dick goes in another man's ass? We generally call that sex." 

"In the forties, we _generally_ wanted the other person to be doing it of their own free will," Steve muttered. "And not because some villain _forced_ them to." 

Clint sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose for a long moment before looking back at Steve. "Is that what your moping in the park is about? Look, the situation wasn't the most optimal, but you make it sound like - like rape. Or like what happened with Loki." 

Later, Steve would let himself think about how soft Clint's voice was with that statement and what that probably meant, but for the time being, all he could manage was, "It was pretty much exactly like what happened with Loki, Clint. And I never wanted you to think of me in the same category." 

"It's entirely different." Clint sounded angry again, and he strode purposefully towards Steve, closing the gap between them completely as he stood nose to nose with Steve. "Loki took away my free will, but he made me do things I would _never_ have done. What we did on the roof ... hell. I've been aiming for that for a while now." 

"But I don't understand. If you'd reciprocated my feelings, why didn't you ever say anything?" Steve asked. "All those lunch dates we had and you never... I assumed you just weren't interested in me that way."

Which meant that he still had a great looking friend who Steve enjoyed spending time with - up until the villain of the week had completely screwed that up.

Or, at least, that's what Steve had believed.

"What, what? Lunch _dates_? All those lost bets and arguing over food - you were viewing those as _dates_?" Clint asked in disbelief. "What feelings of yours was I supposed to be reciprocating, exactly?" 

"I was sharing a bit of home with you, and you were with me," Steve said, a little defensively. "Of course they were dates. The last time I was ... intimate with someone, that's how it started."

"You wooed someone into your bed with cabbage soup? I knew people were hungry during the Depression, but wow." It probably wasn't a good sign that Clint's disbelief was growing. 

"Well, yes." Steve shrugged, a little defensively. "I wouldn't have just shared the cabbage soup with anyone."

The last person had been Bucky, after all, and Steve couldn't help but think how much easier it had been for them to transition into sharing a bed. 

But that was the problem with the twenty-first century: the same lines existed, they just were never in the same place.

"Damn. Damn. Damn. We've been stupid," Clint muttered. "Look, we're _not_ going to let one villain screw up everything, right?" 

"I really hope not," Steve admitted. "But I don't want you to be uncomfortable - "

"I'm not. In fact, let me show you how uncomfortable I'm _not_ ," Clint insisted. "You and me, we're well over due for a sparring practice, wouldn't you say?"

Steve flashed him a grin, because when Clint smiled at you, it was kind of impossible not to return it, no matter how what the circumstances had been five minutes earlier. "I'd say so," Steve agreed. 

"Great. Only instead of picking lunch, the winner gets to be on top. And just so we don't have any more cultural differences pop up between us, when I say 'on top,' I mean in the bedroom, which is the place we are going directly after the sparring concludes," Clint said firmly. "Deal?" 

Well, Steve did want to respect Clint's choices, didn't he? "Deal."

~

This time, when Clint knocked Steve on his ass, Clint accused Steve of throwing the match. Fortunately, Clint didn't seem to care very much. 

As for Steve, he supposed he would always have a fondness for his cabbage soup, but were there _definitely_ better ways to wrap up a sparring session. 

Besides, there'd be time to get back to winning his bets, later.

Many, many times, if Steve had his way.

~

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Steve Rogers' birthday week. Matches the prompts "57: lunch" at fanfic100 and "love potion" for love_bingo. Title comes from this quote: _"Pain reaches the heart with electrical speed, but truth moves to the heart as slowly as a glacier." ~Barbara Kingsolver_


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